“HAPPY ANNIVERSARY, YOU LIARS!”—I Caught My Millionaire Husband Kissing His Mistress in His Private Office on Our FIFTH WEDDING ANNIVERSARY, Then Walked Out Without Looking Back! But Hours Later, a Doctor Turned a Monitor Toward Me—and What I Discovered Would Change Both Our Lives Forever... / Chapter 65 / 80

Chapter 65 - The Traitor’s Banquet

By eight o’clock that evening, the grand dining hall of Villa Castiglione felt less like a banquet and more like a Roman colosseum prior to an execution.

A massive mahogany table stretching fifty feet was set with antique silver, crystal flutes, and black roses. Seated along its perimeter were the eight regional patriarchs and matriarchs of the syndicate—stone-faced men and women who controlled the shadowy shipping lanes of Rotterdam, the private banks of Zurich, and the illicit pipelines running through Eastern Europe. They spoke in hushed, cultured murmuring, their bodyguards standing motionless along the marble walls like statues of death.

At the head of the table sat Elena Castiglione, resplendent in an emerald satin gown, looking like a venomous serpent basking in triumph.

Beside her, forced into a high-collared black velvet gown that felt like a burial shroud, was me.

Mateo had been kept upstairs in the nursery under the guard of four elite mercenaries. Elena had made the stakes abundantly clear before we descended the marble staircase: *“Smile, Laura. Raise your glass. One false word, one scream for help, and the man outside your child’s door has orders to drop him from the balcony into the lake.”*

Every muscle in my body was taut as piano wire. Under the folds of my gown, taped securely to the inside of my left thigh, was the silver fountain pen Teresa had given me.

“Distinguished members of the Sovereign Board,” Elena began, rising gracefully and lifting her champagne flute. The cavernous hall fell into immediate, dead silence. “For three decades, our foundation has operated under a temporary custodianship. Our capital in Geneva has been restricted, our expansion checked by the absence of the direct lineage. Tonight, that era of limitation ends.”

Elena placed a gloved hand firmly on my shoulder. Her fingers dug through the velvet, hard enough to bruise.

“I present to you Laura Castiglione. The legitimate heir of Sofia. And with her, the unbroken succession that releases the thirty-billion-dollar sovereign reserve.”

Murmurs of shock and cold appraisal rippled through the gathered elite. A gray-haired man sitting opposite me, his face scarred along the jaw, leaned forward, his piercing blue eyes dissecting me like an specimen under glass.

“A dramatic return, Elena,” the man rumbled, his voice gravelly. “We were told the bloodline died in an arson fire in Chicago forty-eight hours ago. Along with Dante Vance.”

My heart stopped at Dante’s name, but I kept my face blank, channeling every ounce of strength I had left.

“Dante Vance was an ambitious parasite,” Elena said smoothly, dismissing the mention with a flick of her hand. “He attempted to exploit Laura’s ignorance, hoarding the assets for himself. He met the end all thieves deserve. Laura has recognized where her true loyalty belongs—to the preservation of this family.”

Elena tilted her head slightly toward me. “Isn't that right, Laura?”

The eyes of the entire criminal underworld were locked onto mine. The silence was deafening. I felt the phantom weight of Mateo’s small hand in mine, and the memory of Dante’s bruised, bleeding face screaming for me to run.

I raised my glass of crimson wine, my hand perfectly steady.

“Loyalty to family is absolute,” I said, my voice cutting through the hall with crystal clarity. “And those who betray it will drown in what they tried to steal.”

Elena smiled, pleased by my answer, completely missing the razor-thin threat laced in my tone.

Just then, a waiter in a white uniform stepped forward to pour water into my glass. He moved with quiet, rhythmic deference. But as he leaned over my shoulder, the cuff of his white sleeve pulled back slightly, exposing a distinctive silver scar across his wrist—and a subtle scent drifted into my senses.

Not gardenia. Not expensive cologne.

Gunpowder and cold lake water.

The waiter set the glass down, his eyes briefly meeting mine beneath the brim of his cap.

*Marcus.*

My breath seized in my throat. Marcus gave a nearly imperceptible nod toward the glass. Floating at the bottom of the water was a tiny, clear capsule of waterproof parchment.

Before I could react, the heavy chandelier above the center of the table flickered once, twice, and a deep, low rumble shook the limestone foundations of the villa.